


Midnight Meetings

by Florayna



Series: Farcry 5's (better) Good Ending [4]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: F/F, Sad Girls, Slow Burn The Sad Away, Stacy Isn't Here But He's A Sweetheart, They're Both Just Really Tired, like honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 08:43:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florayna/pseuds/Florayna
Summary: It's been four months since Hudson saw Rook. (and forever since I've posted a fic)(oopsie)The dynamic between them has shifted- but it'll be a time yet before worn out souls come to realize what changed.





	Midnight Meetings

Hudson didn’t know what she expected when she knocked on Rook’s door, but it certainly wasn’t this.

 

She looked better than she had in… a long time, to Joey. She hadn’t seen Rook since that moment behind the station. Hair flat with grease and flecks of mud, the scent of the forest and blood clinging to her like an omen of death. Bags under her eyes, guilt wearing down those usually so purposefully squared shoulders. But strength in every bit of it. A fire in her bones that seemed to fuel every action, making it almost impossible to know how exhausted she really was.

 

But now she just looked defeated. Better, yes, in some ways. Her hair had returned to it’s usual state, brown locks with loose curls. Dull in the low-light of Rook’s doorway, pushed haphazardly to the side. She smelled of shampoo, and detergent, and fabric softener, with the slightest hint of liquor to follow. The bags under her eyes remained. And despite the loose fit of her open flannel, Hudson could see the sag in her shoulders. Shoulders she hadn’t seen squared in awhile.

 

But there was no strength in this. No fire, no electrifying presence. Just Rook.

 

Hudson opened her mouth to speak but the words caught in her throat. From between the flaps of Rook’s shirt, something on her fellow deputy’s chest caught her eye. Black ink, unmistakable despite the darkness of their surroundings.

  
  
**_Wrath_ **

Tattooed onto her peachy skin, more cruelty behind it than any other scar on her body. Whatever words she meant to say were lost. Replaced by a soft gasp of surprise.

 

Rook showed no such surprise. Her distant eyes blinked away as she stepped outside, closing her door behind her with a muted click. She was shorter than Joey, by considerable enough an amount that she had to tilt her head up.

 

“Did something happen?”

  
  
Joey shook her head, though the action itself was a damned lie. A lot had happened in the past four months since they returned from Hope County. The past four months in which she hadn’t had a single bit of contact with Rook. Where she and the Sherrif had worked to clean up the mess they left behind with the National Guard. All while Stacy and Rook suffered through endless hours of therapy.

 

They were due back to work tomorrow though, and…

 

  
  
”I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Hudson say, voice soft. She’d been a lot of that since they came home. Soft. Trying to smooth her own jagged edges over.  
  
Rook didn’t say anything in reply. She sniffed quietly, handing moving to start buttoning her shirt. This close her shampoo’s scent was a little stronger- it reminded Hudson of pine. And salt. And coffee. Or maybe that was just a combination of all the smells that made Rook.

 

“Right.” Hudson conceded after a few moments of silence. Dumb question. “Is there…” _anything I can do?_ There wasn’t. She knew that without asking. “Are you ready? For tomorrow?”

 

“I am.” Rook’s reply was automatic, given thoughtlessly. Like she knew the question was coming eons before it was spoken.

 

 

 

They stood like that for a minute or so. Rook’s eyes averted to the slightly-too-long grass of her lawn, while Hudson’s rested on solely on her. Searching. For what, exactly, it was likely neither of them knew.

 

The taller was the first to move, raising a hand to Rook’s shoulder. She squeeze, gently, as if Rook were a porcelain doll. Not the conflict-hardened veteran they both knew her to be. Then she left. Footsteps fading into the chorus of crickets, returning to her truck parked on the corner of the street.

 

 

 

Rook went back inside not long after. Back to the navy blue sea of her sheets. Back to her laptop, and all the articles people were writing about the ‘Montana Massacre’, the Cult of Hope County. Back to the bottle of whiskey that rested on her headboard. Back to tearstained pillows. Back with the lingering warmth on her shoulder.

 

Back with a fraction of her shivering heart licked by fire.

 

With more guilt than she’d allowed herself to feel before.

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't posted in forever. My only excuse being this chapter of the series went through SEVEN rewrites before I churned out something I was happy with, a good amount of time between each attempt. Sorry babes... but only the best for you. 
> 
> Where do we go from here? Fluff? A slow burn? Big gayness?
> 
> No Richmon. There is a plot to unfold here yet.


End file.
